


The Most Stupid Guy

by OllyOpossum



Series: Whte Hot Spurs [2]
Category: Football RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Belgium National Team, M/M, Tottenham Hotspur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-13 21:03:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9142105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OllyOpossum/pseuds/OllyOpossum
Summary: Mousa Dembele just wants to spend a normal evening with his loving boyfriend, Spurs teammate Jan Vertonghen. But their date turns life-changing after Jan runs into danger in a bad neighbourhood and Mousa feels helpless to save him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> These two are the real deal! They are clearly besties and not afraid to tell the world.
> 
> Feel free to drop me a mail at OllyOpossum@gmail.com for a chat about anything.

**The Most Stupid Guy** is part of a series, but can be read on its own. Click [ here](http://archiveofourown.org/series/583534) to check out other stories in the series.

 

 

** 2017 **

“Stop eating the Chelsea players, Jan!” Toby squints, surgically placing another peanut on the bar counter to replace the one Jan is loudly chomping between his teeth.

Mousa watches the two Centre Backs from his beanbag across the lounge, letting out a small laugh.

Jan dart his eyes sideways to meet Mousa’s. He gives Mousa a small pout then smiles impishly.

Mousa reflexively returns Jan’s smile, then catches himself and draws his lips into a thin line, shaking his head in mock disapproval. Jan should really be concentrating on the tactical discussion.

“Don’t worry, I’m following,” Jan returns his gaze to Toby and his peanut army. “Past few games, they’ve been playing Eden along here, linking with the striker inside the box.” He demonstrates by moving the peanut on the left wing along the flank before also popping it into his mouth.

Toby leans forward in concentration, no doubt formulating how he and Jan will defend such a play. Mousa returns his attention to the book in his lap.

A moment later, irregular footsteps approach from the main corridor, turning into the room before stopping in front of Mousa. He glances up, right into the grinning face of Eric Dier. “G’day, Mous!”

Mousa’s gaze darts across what Eric has draped over his shoulders and wrapped around his torso. “Eric, do you see? There is this _thing_ on your back,” Mousa gestures sluggishly to his own neck.

“Oh, wow. I have a name, you know!” Dele rests his chin atop Eric’s hair and rumbles with laughter, arms flailing against Eric’s chest as he struggles to stay on the piggyback.

Eric stoops slightly from Dele’s commotion, but his broad frame easily allows him to maintain his balance till Dele calms down. Eric glances over at Jan and Toby at the bar counter, “What are them two going on about over there?”

Dele’s eyes widen, mouth curling into a silent “NOOOOOO!” He locks eyes with Mousa and shakes his head from side to side.

Mousa doesn’t understand what Dele is trying to warn him about. “They’re planning the defence for next week’s match,” he tells Eric.

“Ah,” Eric’s eyes light up with excitement, “I have a thing or two to say about that too!” Eric taps Dele on the bum, signalling him to get off. He waits for Dele to hop down before crossing the room and sliding in beside Toby, chattering excitedly as he completes the defenders’ circle.

Dele throws his arms up in the air. “Thanks a lot, Mous! Now Eric’s going to be tied up talking strategy for hours.”

“It’ll just be a moment. Jan and I have dinner reservations at seven.”

“What,” Dele can barely contain his smirk, “Did they finally open a Belgian waffle buffet in London?”

Mousa narrows his eyes, “Ville de Truffes, they have good steak.”

“That’s the franchise restaurant up north, ain’t it?” Dele face turns sombre, “I was in that neighbourhood a couple years back. Got mugged walking to the bus stop, guy almost stabbed me.”

The experience sounds terrible. Mousa frowns. Dele quickly moves beyond the traumatic recollection. He shoots a rubber band into Eric’s hair, Eric doesn’t notice.

\--

“Shoes, clothes, shampoo…” Jan mumbles the mental checklist to himself as he loads various bags into the trunk of the car. Mousa helps shut the trunk once he is done. “…Boyfriend,” Jan continues. He grabs the front of Mousa’s shirt, pulling him into a kiss.

Mousa curls his arm around Jan’s back, drawing him closer. He allows himself to get lost in the kiss; being with Jan still gives him butterflies. Jan’s fingers linger in Mousa’s hair as they draw apart, both getting into the car.

Mousa settles behind the wheel and starts the engine. Jan checks his watch, “Plenty of time. We’ll make it before seven.”

** 1999 **

Mousa sees the ginger haired boy at his weekend leagues. Jan is a great player; though he seems like a troublemaker, always glancing cheekily at Mousa with a slight smirk on his face.

“You’re so strong, Mousa!” Jan often calls out after a game. Mousa waves it off, it feels derisive.

It reminds Mousa of the empty flattery girls at his school heap on him, looking to befriend the “star” football player. As if that is all he is.

\--

One Sunday, some rival boys throw Mousa’s backpack into the mud. Mousa picks it up and glares at them. He stands his ground, unflinching, as the rascals ball their hands into fists in preparation for a fight.

Mousa feels absolutely terrified and livid. But he takes a moment to breathe, and finds the nerve to calm himself. He doesn’t swing. “We’ll settle it on the pitch,” he says, “I’ll beat your team.”

After the bullies leave, Mousa sees Jan smiling at him. “Super Mous!” Jan declares, giving him a reassuring nod, “You’re so strong.”

Mousa grins back, patting Jan on the shoulder. He finally understands what Jan means.

Jan isn’t referring to his _muscles_ , he never has.

\--

They share a root beer float that afternoon. After lunch, Mousa lets Jan draw on his shoes with sharpie; Jan also hands over his best pair for Mousa to decorate.

Mousa draws a cartoon of Jan in a cape, hair slicked back with a single red curl over his forehead. “SuperJan”, he captions it.

Jan plays in those shoes for every week after, till the soles wear away.

** 2017 **

Mousa parks the car. The street looks deserted, but he can see the restaurant a short distance ahead. Jan stretches his legs as soon as he steps out the passenger door.

“Watch it, you cunt!” Three teenagers stop a few feet from the car to yell at Jan.

As far as Mousa can see, Jan’s door did not even come close to hitting them. Jan raises a hand in apology anyway.

The tallest thug appears to be the leader. He has a buzz cut and towers a good few inches above his lackeys. “What’s your problem?” Buzz Cut’s stone cold eyes lock onto Jan, the trio advance towards him. “You daft or something?”

Jan scoffs, rolling his eyes, “Are you being serious?”

Mousa quickly exits the car, arms crossed across his wide chest. He wordlessly steps up beside Jan. He glares back at the hooligans, unblinking.

Buzz Cut glances from Jan to Mousa. He takes one step towards them, then hesitates and backs up a little. He puts a hand in his pocket. Mousa tenses up, ready to spring into reaction. _Is that pocket big enough for a switchblade? A gun?_

“Mental fucks!” Buzz Cut spits.

Jan raises his brows, emphatically nodding his head in mockery.

The thugs are irate, “We’ll pay you back. You’re dead.” The heaviest one at the back eyes Jan and drags a thumb across his neck, sneering as the trio disappear around a corner.

Jan bursts out laughing after them. The noise he makes literally sounds like “Tee hee hee!”

Mousa breathes a sigh of relief, then frowns, “That’s not funny, Jan.”

“Okay, okay,” Jan quiets down and puts a reassuring arm around Mousa’s waist. They walk up to the restaurant.

** 2003 **

Mousa signs with Germinal Beerschot, he is on the youth team with Jan.

Toby is also on the squad, he shows promise of being a world class player; they all do. Mousa feels a rush, as if his life has finally started to get on track.

\--

Beerschot faces Genk in the youth cup finals. Mousa dribbles through three defenders to put one past the keeper.

He is ecstatic! He pumps his fists in the air, sliding across the pitch on his knees. Jan screams like a maniac, charging down the field to hug Mousa.

Mousa is dizzy with excitement. He is just so happy over the goal, and feels buoyed by Jan’s continued support. He pulls Jan’s face towards his and draws him into a kiss. Jan’s eyes go wide as saucers. Mousa doesn’t even realise what he is doing till he feels Jan’s soft lips moving against his. The fans burst into laughter, then cheer louder.

“I’m sorry,” Mousa tells Jan after they win, “I don’t know what came over me.”

“It’s okay, Mous,” Jan grins at him, “It was nice.”

\--

They go to a mediocre French eatery for their first date in an attempt to be “fancy”.

They talk about the future over appetisers. “It’s beautiful how you dribble, Mousa,” Jan’s eyes twinkle with delight. “You and I will play together in the Champions League one day!”

Mousa nods, he wants it to be true. “Will you still be my boyfriend then, Jantje?”

Jan shakes his head.

Mousa feels his eyes flutter and the sides of his lips curling downwards. He hopes it isn’t noticeable. _At least Jan is honest._

Jan sees Mousa’s expression. “Silly Mous!” Jan leans forward to meet his eyes. “That’s in at least ten years,” he touches Mousa behind the ear, “We’ll already be married by then!”

Mousa can’t stop smiling for the rest of the day.

\--

They still play together every weekend. And they go on dates during the week.

Jan takes Mousa to the carnival, winning him a giant stuffed whale; Mousa takes Jan to an abandoned chapel, they have a picnic under the stained glass façade; they sneak into Bosuilstadion Stadium to watch the big teams play, they get caught because Jan cheers too loudly.

\--

Then one evening, Jan is uncharacteristically quiet.

“I’m moving to Amsterdam, Mousa,” he finally says. “Ajax wants to sign me.”

Mousa doesn’t know what to say. He is devastated.

“Don’t be sad, Mous,” Jan places his hand over his. Mousa is unconvinced, because he sees that Jan’s eyes are welling up.

** 2017 **

The restaurant doesn’t seem to have any other customers. Perhaps that is why the waiter pays them special attention.

“Whoa, mate! Dembele, Vertonghen! Not every day we see Champions League players in here.” Mousa smiles at him, but he scampers off to get them water and breadsticks before Mousa can reply.

Jan jolts upright, digging through his pocket till he finds his phone and puts it to his ear. “I’ll be right back,” he gestures for Mousa to order without him, “it’s my agent.” Jan exits the restaurant to take the call.

** 2004 **

Jan and Mousa have barely spoken in the past year.

Mousa doesn’t write because he doesn’t want to see Jan’s reply; surely something full of wit and kindness. It will only hurt to be reminded of how great Jan is. He wonders if Jan is also reluctant to contact him for the same reason, or because he has forgotten about Mousa.

\--

The team sits in the shade of a tree after training. Cooling off and sipping water away from the late afternoon sun.

Toby is practically bouncing with excitement. He announces that he is leaving for Ajax at the end of the month. He is scared and thrilled and dizzy, he says.

Ajax. The name strikes a chord with Mousa. Ajax is where friends go and never come back. It is where Jan went to begin his “real” life when he outgrew young love; outgrew Mousa.

But Mousa is nothing but happy for Toby, it is indeed a big opportunity for his friend. It doesn’t make his heart ache like with Jan.

** 2017 **

Mousa checks his watch; Jan has been on the phone for six minutes now. Poor Jan must be freezing his arse off on the street trying to get that agent of his off his back. He decides to see if Jan could use some company.

He exits the restaurant and steps out onto the curb. The evening has somehow gotten far darker outside.

** 2008 **

There is a haunting beauty to Istanbul.

The upcoming game against Turkey will be Mousa’s first match for Belgium in the 2010 World Cup qualifiers. And the first time in years he will be on a team with Jan.

Mousa is twenty-one, a young man now. In many ways, he has grown up; he has packed on serious muscle, and his football skills are getting sublime. But Mousa doesn’t feel like he’s truly come into his own yet. There remains a gaping hole at his core that constantly breathes loneliness into his being.

Mousa has tried to move on over the past five years. He’s been on dates with girls from school, even kissed a teammate in the locker room. These romances never lasted because they simply didn’t make him happy. Mousa is starting to think that nothing ever will.

\--

Jan and Mousa are assigned a room together at the hotel.

“Your games are on Dutch TV,” Jan says, drying off after a shower. He sits on the bed, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist.

He seems taller and his beard is fuller, but he is still as peppy and handsome as Mousa remembers. “You’ve grown so much,” Jan continues, “I tell everyone that Mousa Dembele is my friend, the best footballer I know!”

“I’m still the same guy, Jantje,” Mousa tells him. Mousa feels a lump growing in his throat; he stops himself from saying more.

“The same stupid guy,” Jan looks at him fondly. “Sometimes, I want to go back to playing Sunday league in the park with you,” Jan’s words come as a surprise to Mousa. “But this is football, you know? We have to play for the best to be the best.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” Jan shrugs. "I just miss what we had."

Mousa rests his chin on Jan’s bare shoulder. They press their foreheads together.

After a moment, Jan stands. He locks eyes with Mousa, unknotting his towel and letting it fall to the floor. Mousa gasps, Jan is chiselled like white granite.

\--

The hotel is dead silent after midnight, Mousa cannot fall asleep. He draws Jan’s slumbering form tight against his bare chest, feeling Jan’s heartbeat against his own. He squints his eyes hard and makes a wish for Belgium to reach the World Cup finals in two years.

Of course he wants Belgium to win! But, more than anything, each round they advance towards the finals means more time in this blissful limbo with Jan. As long as Team Belgium remains in the Cup, a “Jan and Mousa” exists.

Mousa knows it still has to end eventually, but it’ll buy him two more years. He’ll dash for every tackle, take on the world’s best players, break his back winning for Belgium if he needs to; anything to keep them in the World Cup till 2010 and to put off parting ways with Jan.

** 2017 **

“Hello. Paging Jan Vertonghen,” Mousa whistles. He glances around, squinting to see under the dim streetlights.

Jan isn’t on the sidewalk.

Mousa walks a little further down to the only other shop on the street, a small English cafe. He tugs on the door, it is locked. The sign says “closed” and the lights are off. Obviously, there is no one inside.

“Jan?” He calls again.

Their car is still in its spot, empty. It doesn’t make sense that Jan would wander off anywhere out of sight.

Mousa’s mind flashes to Dele’s story of getting mugged here; a robber’s knife glinting under the moonlight, calling for blood; then the three thugs from earlier. _We’ll pay you back. You’re dead._

He freezes in his tracks. No way. There is no way some small time hooligans bothered enough to return for some payback; even if Jan did practically dare them to do so.

“JAN!” Mousa’s voice carries down the vacant street.

Did he hear a car go by while Jan was outside? Were there screeching tires; a cry for help?

 _“This is stupid!”_ Mousa forces himself to think. _“Jan is alright. He’s alright!”_

_We’ve been through too much; this isn’t how I lose him._

“JANTJE!”

In the distance, a dog starts to bark at the panicked tremble in Mousa’s voice.

-END OF CHAPTER 1-

 **The Most Stupid Guy** is part of a series, but can be read on its own. Click [ here](http://archiveofourown.org/series/583534) to check out other stories in the series.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter re-uploaded after glitch with images.

 

** 2009 **

Mousa travels to Estonia for Belgium’s swan song. He feels terrible.

Belgium has had an abysmal run; they’ve failed to make the group stage of the 2010 World Cup. The upcoming final match against Estonia is a mere formality.

“Enjoy it while we can, eh.” Eden Hazard says over breakfast. “We’ll come back stronger in four years!” Mousa is glad that the teenage substitute’s spirits hasn’t been too far dampened by the grim circumstances.

Mousa sits with Eden over their Estonian breakfast the day before the match; they are still waiting for half the team to arrive.

“Oh!” Eden calls to the entrance, “You guys have got to try this,” he slurs through a mouthful of food. Mousa glances up to see that Toby and Jan have arrived, suitcases in tow.

“Stop eating, Eden!” Toby scratches his hair while flashing a white grin, “It’s a nice morning, go outside and kick the ball around.” Eden makes a face at Toby.

Jan doesn’t seem as cheery as Toby and Eden. He reaches out and grasps Eden’s hand in greeting, then Mousa’s.

Jan’s grip is weak, he meets Mousa’s eyes and nods in solemn acknowledgement. They both know this will be their last match as teammates for a long time, perhaps ever.

\--

They lose against Estonia.

The Manager gives the team an hour to pack before they have to board the shuttle to the airport.

Mousa and Jan sit at the balcony in their hotel room. There isn’t time to visit anywhere else in one hour. The late afternoon sun still sears hot and bright overhead, but Mousa knows that it will soon be replaced by the bleak darkness of evening.

“They give us too little time,” Jan reflects. “What am I supposed to do with you in just one hour?” Jan balls his hand into a fist over Mousa’s collar and tugs Mousa suggestively towards himself.

“Imagine if they let us have the whole afternoon here,” Mousa smiles. He leans in to meet Jan’s eyes; then lets his gaze drop ceremoniously towards the front of Jan’s shorts.

Jan chuckles. “Don’t lie, Mous!” He nudges Mousa with his shoulder, “If we had the entire afternoon, you would have taken me to the town bazaar for photos and stupid souvenirs.”

Mousa laughs heartily. _Yes. Yes, he would have._

He intertwines his fingers with Jan’s as they watch the sun set. Jan squeezes his hand gently, resting his head on Mousa’s shoulder. Mousa turns away from the scenic vista, studying Jan’s face instead. Jan still has the twinkle in his eyes when he stares back at Mousa.

Mousa watches Jan’s hair glow in the peach and violet hues of the fading sunlight. He fondly studies how Jan’s eyes seem to change colour as the light dims. The sun dips over the horizon and a shadow eclipses them both.

The concierge knocks on the door; the shuttle is waiting.

Mousa and Jan sit together for a moment longer. There is an unspoken understanding that they will go back to their “real lives” now, apart from each other.

After a moment, they separate. Mousa straightens his shirt as he stands. He goes to extend the handle on his luggage, expertly manoeuvring it towards the door.

Perhaps it will be easier to get over Jan this second time.

** 2017 **

Jan’s phone goes straight to voicemail. Mousa dials the number for the police and hits call just as the signal bars on his phone drops to zero. The line goes dead before it even starts ringing. _Shit._

He paces towards their car, phone outstretched above his head for a signal. He soon decides it is fruitless and jogs back towards the restaurant. Mousa tries to breathe through his nose evenly to slow the erratic thumping of his heart.

He just wants to hear Jan’s stupid laugh again!

Mousa goes past the entrance of the restaurant (Jan still isn’t at their table), turning into the alley behind the restaurant. It is empty except for a dumpster beside the restaurant’s side door. Mousa walks past the dumpster further down the alley, where some incomplete repair work has caused the concrete walkway to collapse into a huge sinkhole just before the dead end.

The sinkhole looks extremely old, like it has been growing over several months. There is dirt and moss gathered along its edges. It’s too dark for Mousa to see all the way down. But it is wide and deep enough to fit a small car.

_Oh no._

Mousa squints into its depths. At once hoping to catch a glimpse of the bottom and terrified of seeing something, like the motionless body of his boyfriend, coming into focus.

“Jan!” He calls desperately into the night air again and is met with dead silence.

_No!_

He glances back at the ditch — _no, a ditch is where people are found dead in!_ – the _nook_ in the floor.

Mousa trembles. Jan is the love of his life, and there is only one place left that he could be.

** 2012 **

Jan is waiting for him in the hall after he signs with the manager. Dressed in his Spurs jersey, he grins at Mousa, smile spreading from ear to ear. “Welcome to Tottenham… mate!”

Mousa cracks up at Jan’s exaggerated attempt at a British accent. He practically sprints the distance between them and takes Jan in a full embrace, pushing his nose into Jan’s neck.

\--

He hasn’t seen Jan in three years, not since their final World Cup qualifier match. Mousa had transferred to Fulham a year after Belgium fizzed out of the World Cup; quite enjoying the change of scenery since moving to an England.

He scored in his very first match for the club and got caught up in a whirlwind from there. He trains, he plays, he laughs with teammates, his hurts himself and requires physiotherapy but Mousa just keeps his head down and plays the best football he knows. The comments start and persist more and more unrelentingly; Mousa still can’t believe it when he hears his name in the same sentence as “world class” or “best on the team”.  Two years at Fulham go by in a blink.

Mousa had found himself becoming “Dembele, the rising star” or “Dembele, beast on the ball” as fans and pundits came to recognise him; quietly tucking away the private side of himself that yearns for a personal connection. He learnt to wring drops of happiness out of the fans’ rapturous applause even as he returned to a dead silent home each day.

It came as a sobering jolt when his agent calls to tell him that he has an offer from Tottenham Hotspur. He accepted immediately.

\--

 _“What a cosmic joke life is_ ,” he thinks, “ _being teammates with Jan yet again_.”

Even as he feels Jan’s gentle hands cupping the back of his head in their embrace, Mousa can already sense the looming inevitability of having to part ways with Jan a third time.

Jan shows Mousa the training pitch, then the gym, excitedly chattering about his past three years with Ajax and musing about the good times to come now that they’re teammates again.

Jan takes Mousa to the empty locker room. Mousa looks down the line of cubbies filled with player equipment and mementos. The sections look spacious, he imagines that he’d put up the picture of him with his parents in the top right, and a postcard of Antwerp underneath that.

Mousa’s eyes flick over Jan’s open cubby. There is a Christmas card from Jan’s parents, a photo of Jan grinning with his Player of the Year award, way too many shoes, and something familiar which catches his eye.

The photo is faded yellow with age, but Mousa spots the Beerschoot jersey colours before he recognises the scene. It is from their third date picnic, back when they were sixteen; a selfie of Jan wearing a red paper cup as a hat and playfully attempting to feed Mousa a marshmallow.

Mousa senses it coming, but is still overwhelmed with the wave of melancholy that hits almost instantly. That silly picnic with Jan was one of the most purely happy days of Mousa’s life. Looking at it now brown-spotted and faded by time, it just seems to be from another lifetime.

Jan’s peppiness stops abruptly when he sees Mousa looking at their picture and turns bright red. He clears his throat and rushes to drape a towel over the top shelf to cover the photos.

Mousa composes himself. “That was a funny day, eh Jan?” He says, trying to diffuse Jan’s visible discomfort.

Jan glances up in surprise, his eyes study Mousa’s face pensively. “Mousa, you don’t mind?”

“Don’t mind what?”

Jan sits, his face still flushed red. “I mean…” Jan clears his throat nervously, “Mous, we aren’t even together anymore and I still keep a picture of us from nine years ago.” He looks at his shoelaces.

“Why did you keep it then?” Mousa holds his breath, he’s not sure if he’s ready to hear Jan’s answer.

“I know we were just young, being stupid and having fun.” Jan pauses, then continues, his voice barely audible, “But… I don’t know, it meant more to me than that." He sighs, "I don't regret leaving for Ajax, my career wouldn't be where it is now if not for that. It's just... I wish it didn't break us up. I really missed you, Mous!" 

Mousa's head is spinning, his hands tremble as he pulls out his wallet in a haste. “Jan, look.” Mousa sits beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder. He opens his wallet for Jan to see the polaroid-sized photo of them dining together in Istanbul during the World Cup qualifiers four years ago.

Jan freezes under Mousa’s touch. Mousa can feel him trembling slightly, or maybe it is Mousa himself who’s shaking with nerves. Jan remains silent for a moment. “Mous, how come you never wrote me?” He finally asks.

“You never wrote me!” Mousa stutters. “I didn’t write you because I didn’t want to hold you back or be a nuisance on your new career.”

Jan looks miserable, “I followed your progress through the news and our old teammates. You were doing so well! I didn’t want to disrupt your new life either.” He buries his head in his hands. “Mousa, it really hurt every time we had to part ways.”

Mousa doesn't know what to say, he stares at Jan pensively. His hand is still on Jan’s shoulder and he can’t bring himself to remove it.

“Mous,” Jan’s head snaps up to meet Mousa’s gaze, “Let’s do it! Be together… but for real this time!”

Mousa feels Jan place his hand on top of his. Jan’s touch still sends tingly shockwaves up his spine. Mousa shuts his eyes and lets the sensation wash over him. He knows him and Jan have something special but is terrified of getting hurt again.

“Jantje, one of us will leave the club eventually and we’ll split up again.”

“We’ll make it work this time,” Jan stresses. Mousa notices the familiar spark of boyish excitement behind his eyes, “This time, we know that we are serious about each other.” Jan’s eyes meet Mousa’s, “I’m crazy about you Mous! Have some faith in us, what do you say?”

Looking at Jan’s soft blue eyes brimming with hope, Mousa already knows the answer.

** 2017 **

Mousa takes the leap.

His foot instantly slips on the moss along the steep edge of the slope. Mousa feels the dirt giving way under his weight as gravity pulls him forward and down.

Mousa sprawls into darkness for a good few metres before landing on his ankle, his left flank scraping against the jagged dirt before coming to a stop at the bottom of what he can only observe is a filthy pit.

Raw pain shoots up his side. A guttural moan pierces the air for several seconds before Mousa realises it is coming from his own lips. He curls up in the dirt for a moment, senses too overloaded to process anything else but to wait for the pain to subside.

Through the daze, he hears the side door of the restaurant opening and the waiters’ anxious chattering pouring into the night air. He cranes his neck to look up, only to be blinded by the glare of the restaurant’s interior lights through the open door.

Then, a figure steps between Mousa and the light. He feels arms wrapping around his torso, steadying his body before lifting him to his feet.

“Mousa!” The embrace feels warm and Mousa instantly recognises the aftershave. “Mous, are you okay? What happened?”

Mousa’s head spins from the sheer relief. His voice cracks, and he feels like he is about to cry with happiness, “JAN!”

-END OF CHAPTER 2-

 **The Most Stupid Guy** is part of a series, but can be read on its own. Click [ here](http://archiveofourown.org/series/583534) to check out other stories in the series.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Third and final chapter will be up in a few weeks. Thanks! :)


	3. Chapter 3

**The Most Stupid Guy** is part of a series, but can be read on its own. Click [here](http://archiveofourown.org/series/583534) to check out other stories in the series.

 

 

** 2014 **

Belgium's World Cup ambitious come to an untimely end at the quarter finals. It will be their final night in Brazil and Mousa is still reeling from their defeat to Argentina hours earlier. Still, Mousa is more concerned about his boyfriend. Jan has been uncharacteristically silent, walking to and fro within their room packing and sorting things within his luggage. Mousa drags out a wisp of breath as he sits at the edge of the bed, flipping through channels on the television.

The past two years together as teammates and boyfriends has shown him new sides of Jan, and Mousa finds that it has only deepened their connection. Thinking of Jan's preppy and cheeky demeanour gives Mousa a comforting warmth in his chest. In fact, Mousa can't even remember the last time he has felt that gnawing pit of emptiness that had plagued him since his teens. Even at times of disaster such as today, Mousa doesn't feel entirely lost because he knows that he has someone dear to his heart that even the most crushing of defeats cannot take from him. 

Yet, Jan himself has a melancholy edge that leaves him especially hard on himself on nights like these. Mousa hates seeing Jan deflate like this. Jan's admiration and encouragement has spurred Mousa through some tough times. He wishes Jan could be similarly buoyed by Mousa’s belief in him.

\--

Jan eventually sinks into the armchair across the room from Mousa.

Mousa let's the room stew, filling up with the zany pops and dialogue from the game show on TV. After a moment, he points for Jan to look at the screen, "You see this guy, he's about to prank that contestant... He's funny, eh!" Mousa laughs modestly at his own statement. 

Jan let's out a chuckle at the character Mousa pointed out. They sit in a slightly more comfortable silence watching the programme for ten minutes. Jan seems to liven up, making little comments or snickers about it here and there. 

Jan turns to stare at Mousa, his expression is unreadable. He gets up and joins Mousa, sitting beside him on their bed. 

They stare at the TV in silence for a few moments till Mousa feels Jan's wrapping his arm around his shoulder. Jan tousles at the curls at the back of Mousa's hair. 

Mousa exhales, "Jantje, they were too good. There's nothing we could have done." 

"I know." Jan touches his nose to Mousa's shoulder. "Mous, I'm fine." 

Mousa frowns. 

"I'm serious!" Jan lips turn up into a small smile. “I hate when we lose, that’s all. But there’s nothing to complain about, you know. Right now, I’m in Brazil watching television with this guy that I love-” Jan kisses the side of Mousa’s lips, “-and tomorrow, we get to go home and I get to play more matches with him. Matches we can win.”

 

** 2017 **

Jan slings Mousa's arm around his shoulder and helps him upright. "Mous, what happened? Are you hurt?" He gingerly grazes the torn side of Mousa's shirt with his fingers. 

Sheer relief blooms into Mousa's limbs. His arms dart around Jan's waist, he presses his chest into the warmth of Jan's body, nose burying into the nape of his neck. Jan let's out a contented purr, "Mousa, what?"

"Those thugs earlier, I thought you-" Mousa stutters, then catches himself and clucks disapprovingly, "Where were you?" 

 

** 2016 **

“Dinner’s on this lad tonight,” Dele points across the table to Nacer, “For being a mug and leaving us for West Brom next month.”

Nacer scoffs, but shrugs his shoulders at the waitress and gives her an obliging nod nonetheless.

Mousa, Jan, Eric and Toby oblige, more than happy to call out their orders with Nacer footing the bill.

“We’ll also have two of your most expensive wine please.” Dele shoots Nacer a dastardly grin, he squints at the menu, “The Chateau Mar— Moor– umm…”

Eric snots with laughter at Dele’s attempt to speak French.

\--

The team has been throwing out merciless jabs all night about West Brom, its manager and its players; causing Nacer to hoot with laughter at his future club till his face turns bright red.

Mousa is sad that Nacer will soon leave the team. But he has grown accustomed to friends transferring away now; it’s just a normal part of the game. Its only difficult and frightening when you're in love with the friends who are leaving.

He had gladly done his part in tonight’s ribbing too, telling a joke about if Tony Pulis were to manage a strip club; or was it a fast food joint? Mousa is slightly tipsy and doesn’t remember. 

Mousa sees Jan glance at him from the seat beside him, he smiles. 

“This guy,” Jan drapes an arm around Mousa, slurring his words slightly, “This stupid guy is always drunk after a few drinks.” Mousa feels Jan scratching at the side of his head. “You see!” Jan declares, “Only nine o’clock and he’s gone already.” Mousa smiles, but shoots Nacer a dirty look when he hears Nacer’s screeching laughter from across the table.

Mousa realises how much he doesn't want this night to end. Ever since that first devastating blow when Jan moved away to Ajax, each pearl of happiness Mousa found felt like it would shatter at any moment to reveal crushing heartbreak. 

Even now, after four stable years together, Mousa doesn't dare think what Jan truly means to him. He has to push out of his mind that their relationship is essentially untested. They are teammates and see each other daily, they don't have to try and make it work when living apart in different cities with different career paths like they will likely have to do once their time together at Tottenham runs down. Mousa imagines watching a bubble expand and expand, its ephemeral walls straining under the pressure. He pushes the image out of his mind. The waitress comes by to take dessert orders. 

 

** 2017 **

"I was in there," Jan gestures towards the restaurant's back entrance. Mousa can see their waiter and a few chefs peering out curiously. “Let’s get to the car, we have the first aid kit in the trunk.”

Mousa gingerly unslings himself from around Jan’s shoulder, testing if he can walk on his own. Both ankles feel fine as he puts his weight on them. Jan rests his palm under Mousa’s elbow and guides him to the car.

Glancing back, Mousa sees several chefs and waiters looking out at them. Some seem to be whispering among themselves.

Mousa squints to make out what they are doing more clearly but the sliver of light narrows, then disappears as the door shuts quietly.

 

** 2016 **

While waiting for dessert to arrive, Toby suggests they all take a short stroll outside. Perhaps point out to Nacer all the London mainstays he'd soon be missing. Mousa feels sleepy from the wine, so he and Jan volunteer to stay behind and guard everyone's belongings. 

"I'll stay too," Dele offers, sliding in next to Jan. "Will order more of them Cheteau MooMoos for the table."

Eric seems surprised but laughs nonetheless, "Alright, Delboy. Try not to annoy our Belgians too much. I'm going to pick up some of the munchies you like so much, you can have whatever I don't eat before we get back." Grinning at Dele, Eric leaves the restaurant with Nacer and Toby. 

"Jeez, thanks Diet!" Dele cackles to himself, eyes lingering on Eric till he is out of sight. "So..." he turns to Mousa and Jan, "You guys will only see Nacer on national duty now, planning on keeping in touch outside that?" 

"Yes, of course," Mousa offers, "I'm sure we'll still text and meet up every now and then." 

"That doesn't sound like very much," Dele seems disappointed. "I'm the same way with my old MK Dons teammates, still have a pint now and then but nothing else." 

Mousa sees Jan frown, then exchanges a look with him. They are starting to see where Dele is headed. 

“I, umm... I want it to be different with my Spurs mates," Dele continues, "I don't want us to stop being best friends when one of us leaves." 

Jan grins mischievously, "Awww, Dele... We're your best friends?"  

Dele blushes immensely. "Oh, I meant... No, uhhh..." He stumbles to find the right words before letting out a resigned sigh, "I think United might try to transfer Eric next year, I don't know if he will accept." 

Mousa whistles and squeezes Dele's shoulder, he completely understands. He wants to tell Dele there is nothing to fear, but the words die on the tip of his tongue. Mousa isn't even sure if those words are true himself. 

Jan pipes up, "Okay, let's say Eric does leave next year..." 

Dele's brows shoot up; he looks devastated.  

“Wait, listen,” Jan tries to gather his thoughts. “It isn’t 2003 anymore; there’s video chatting, and express flights and private planes. The distance won’t matter if you both make the effort."

Dele looks unconvinced.

“Okay, take me for example.” Jan continues, “Say I transfer to any club around the world tomorrow. I would plan everything out even before I accepted the transfer so we talk daily and we know the end goal is to reunite very soon.”

Mousa suddenly realises he is staring straight at Jan, a smile creeping across his face. Jan notices. His face twitches in surprise when he realises the implication of what he is saying.

Jan continues, now articulating his words carefully, his gaze darting over to Mousa. “And if there is someone… someone I really love, I know we would both make the effort. We would coordinate what times to video call, when we can fly out for a visit, how to spend the vacations together. Because I would know, the job is only temporary, my main home is the one we plan to build together, and that I know I will return to.”

Mousa's breath hitches in his throat. Any lingering doubts he had on the matter wither into the air; he is absolutely in love with this man!

Dele looks surprised by Jan’s sentimentality. He thinks about it for a moment, then a look of relief washes over his face. “Thanks mate! That's useful for knowing what to expect in the future and things.” He wanders back to his seat and takes a bite out of Eric’s leftover fries. "But really," Dele looks down at the plate, voice barely audible, "Thank you guys, that really helped me sort out my... you know... stuff... about Eric." 

Mousa and Jan nod in understanding. Dele clears his throat, flashing a grin and instantly reverting to his cheery demeanour. He takes his phone out and starts scrolling through his social media. 

Mousa returns his focus to Jan and the impact of what he just said. “Jantje…” he starts. The sounds of the city whooshes over them as the door opens.  

Toby and Nacer swoop in, they seem even merrier than when they left. Eric announces his return, grinning and ruffling Dele's hair, "Dele, I looked it up on my phone, it's actually pronounced 'Château Mer-cDonalds'!" He smirks at Dele, waiting for a reaction.

"Shut up, Diet!" Dele tries to look annoyed but bursts into laughter, he buries his trembling face in Eric's shoulder.  

"What? What did I say?" Eric makes an exaggerated expression of shock, then laughs and cups Dele's head gently. 

Mousa smiles. He nudges Jan on the shoulder, gesturing to Dele and Eric. 

Jan looks contentedly at them and sighs, "I think they'll work out, eh Mousa?" He squeezes Mousa's hand under the table. 

 "Yes." Mousa is absolutely certain now. "Yes, they will." 

** 2017 **

In the front seat of the car, Jan pulls up one side of Mousa's shirt and fusses over his flank, running his fingers tenderly over his bare torso to graze the areas where new scratches zigzag along Mousa's ribs. 

"I'm fine," Mousa insists. The outside of his right thigh still tingles angrily with pain, but Mousa knows it isn't serious. "Let's just have dinner." 

"At least let the physios have a look at it," Jan sighs. His breath feels warm against Mousa's shoulderblade. 

Mousa wraps his fingers over Jan's wandering hands so he'll stop fussing with his wounds. "It's fine, really. Why don't we-" Mousa pauses. With time to finally assess the situation, he notices something is different about Jan. He sees the deep red of the bow tie first, then the black fabric around Jan’s shoulders; Jan had put on a tie and blazer while he was gone!

Mousa can't help but smile at how pleasant Jan looks in this out of place formal wear. He brushes Jan's bow tie, then his red scruff. "What is this?" Mousa smiles. 

"Nothing. It's just my clothes," Jan laughs. 

"You weren't wearing this just now."

"Yeah, I brought them in my bag."

"What for?"

Jan doesn't answer. 

"Tell me. I just fell into a ditch looking for you!" Mousa laughs but cuts into a glare when Jan snots in amusement, causing Jan to snot even louder.  

Jan eyes Mousa's torn shirt, then the scratches along his thigh. His mulling look morphs into one of resolve, he seems to have decided Mousa deserves an answer. 

"Okay..." Jan shifts nervously, his eyes study Mousa's face. "I wanted to get dressed up for our dinner tonight," he nods his head towards the restaurant they had planned to dine at, "Do you remember this restaurant chain? They have them all over Antwerp too." 

Mousa gives Jan a quizzical look. He doesn't understand where Jan is going but replies anyway, "Yeah. We used to eat there at Beerschot, what, fourteen years ago?" 

"You and I picked it out of the phone book for our first time date. You said 'I don't care, just anywhere with steak!'"

Mousa bursts out laughing. That had been the day after he lost his mind winning against Genk, kissing Jan for the first time in euphoria. 

Jan leans in, his expression softens. "What did we talk about that day?"

Mousa laughs again, "We said we were going to play in the champions league one day." Mousa shakes his head, whistling in amusement, "We thought Beerschot was going to win the champions league!" 

"Mous, do you remember what I said after that?"

Mousa tries to picture that day fourteen years ago, he remembers being so thrilled at the shift in their relationship towards something that felt far greater. Jan's blue eyes had met his from across the table, glowing with the same look of intrigue that Mousa can see in the moonlight now. 

"Hmm." Mousa frowns, trying to dig up the memory. "We wanted to play for the big clubs, in the best leagues. And then you said... we could do it. In ten years! We'll be playing in the champions league... that we'd still be together and... married... by then." 

Mousa looks up. Jan is beaming at him; he has a ring in his hands. 

He can't speak. His mind blanks.

"It took us a little longer than we expected, but I'm still all in for you." Jan clears his throat, his voice cracks a little, "Mousa, will you marry me?"  

Mousa inhales sharply, he knows the answer! He tries to yell it out but his mouth just falls open in a surprised gape. 

Jan laughs nervously, he starts to babble, "Wanted it to be a bigger thing, with the suit and music. The restaurant knows, we were actually making preparations in the backroom when you-" 

"Jan." Mousa gulps hard, "Yes." 

"Yes?"

"Of course 'yes'!" 

Feeling the rise in his chest at the sight of Jan's face lighting up in joy,  Mousa knows he wants to spend the decades to come basking in that look, ensuring it never dims. 

\--

They decide to skip dinner and make the trip back early. Mousa drives, one hand on the wheel and the other intertwined with Jan’s, who smiles contentedly and leans over to kiss Mousa seemingly every five minutes.

Mousa navigates the familiar London streets; if he wanted to, he knows he can drive them across the English Channel and into equally familiar Belgian streets. He wonders when he’ll next look up to discover that the surroundings have instead grown unfamiliar. He tightens his grip on Jan’s hand.

Mousa knows there will be setbacks, howling disasters even. Him and Jan have travelled to cities all over the world and faced adversity in every one. Their time at Tottenham is running short; inching its way towards yet another plunge into the unknown, back to Belgium, or to new opportunities in America, China, or god knows where. 

But he isn’t afraid. The promise they had made tonight means that neither would ever be stranded again. Everything else could soar into unimaginable fortune or fester away like gangrene, and the world would still fall away to reveal ‘Mousa and Jan’, intact and unmovable.

\--

Jan suppresses a yawn as Mousa shifts the car into park. “We’re home!”

 

-END-

 

 **A New Day**  is part of a series. Click [here](http://archiveofourown.org/series/583534) to check out other stories in the series.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Hope you've enjoyed the story. 
> 
> Do drop me a comment about anything at all! :)


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